


Waiting

by chicken_neck



Series: Blue Lights on the Runway [2]
Category: Casson Family - Hilary McKay
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pining, Tom is a dumbass, post Indigo's Star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18101816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicken_neck/pseuds/chicken_neck
Summary: Indigo spent a lot of time in bed after Tom left.A prequel of sorts to Prodigal, but can be read independently.





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWrongKindOfPC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWrongKindOfPC/gifts).



> Gifting this to TheWrongKindofPC because if they did not comment so enthusiastically on the first work in this series, I quite literally would never have finished it.   
> Let this be a lesson in enthusiastic comments. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Christina who is the best and my favourite and good at editing as well.

 

Indigo spent a lot of time in bed after Tom left.

It wasn’t exactly like his time with glandular fever (less swelling, for one thing), but he felt the same tiredness, the same achiness, the same sense of being unmoored from the world of people and time.

Eve brought him up some lumpy tomato soup on the evening of day two, and took it away again on the morning of day three. “Poor Indigo,” she sighed, re-entering the kitchen. “Still, heartbreak is like the chickenpox, isn’t it dear? Get it good and hard when you’re young, and you’re immune for the rest of your life.”

“People can get chickenpox twice,” said Saffron, who was learning to play chess from Sarah on a small spare patch of table. “The virus remains inactive in your nerve cells and when you’re feeling really under the weather, it pops up again. Sometimes as shingles.”

Eve had rather been hoping some of her less hard-hearted offspring would be present for her pronouncement. Caddy would surely have agreed.

“Twelve is quite old for chickenpox, also,” added Saffy.

Sarah nodded. “We watched a documentary about it.”

Eve laid a worried hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Above them, Indigo drifted in his bundle of blankets, feeling more and more like arctic ice.

Not the kind that melted in the summer, but the kind that stayed frozen for thousands and thousands of years, full of scientifically interesting pollen, but mostly just cold.

\--

Rose accosted him on day four, on his way from the toilet.

“You have to come down and look at my picture,” she said. “I’ve changed it.”

Indigo imagined what changes she might have made and decided he didn’t want to see them, ever, but particularly now. “Later, Rosie.”

“No!” She stomped her foot. “If you don’t come to see it, I’m changing it again right! now! And if you don’t come to see it now you won’t ever get to see this version! And this version is the best version! Caddy and Saffy and Derek and Michael all said so!” She hesitated for a moment. “Well, Derek was having a nap, but he thought it was very good anyway!”

Indigo looked deep within himself, and could not find the strength to argue.

He went down to see Rose’s painting.

“Oh,” he said.

He’d thought that she was going to put Tom back in America, or perhaps throw him into the shark-filled waters with Bill. She hadn’t.

She had put him beside Indigo. They were inside the house (“So he can’t run away again,” explained Rose). They were holding hands.

“Oh,” said Indigo, again.

“I’m not really going to paint over it,” said Rose. “You’d been in bed too long. So I lied. I’m keeping it like this probably forever and ever”

“That’s good, I like it.” He had a lump in his throat, suddenly, and scanned the rest of the wall, looking for something, anything, else to comment on. “Why is Sarah’s mum sticking out of the chimney?”

Rose sniffed, “she’s very concerned about my cooking, so I thought she’d like it in there.”

\--

Later that afternoon, Derek arrived in the kitchen, puffed up like a peacock and carrying an old guitar case. “I think this’ll get Indie out of bed,” he said.

“He’s already out of bed,” said Sarah.

“He’s making pancakes,” said Saffy.

Indigo waved the spatula at him

“And so he is,” said Derek, spirits undimmed. He set the case on the table, nudging an open box of chalk pastels out of the way to make it fit. “Have at it nevertheless.”

Indigo hesitated for a moment, but put down the spatula, and moved the pan off the heat. Indigo washed his hands, dried them. He took off his apron. He walked to the table. The room waited with bated breath as he unlatched the case, deftly, and looked at the guitar.

It was the same. Not the same as it was when Rose tried to repair it, but the same as it was the first time he saw it, in Tom’s hands. He lifted it out of the case, put the strap around his neck. He rested his open palm against the strings, noiselessly.

“Thank you, Derek,” he said.

Sarah whooped softly, Saffy started clapping.

\--

David called later that evening. Rose picked the phone up immediately. “Hello?” she asked. “It’s not dad,” she told Saffy, batting her away. “Yes. Wait a minute.” She listened to the receiver again.

“INDIGO,” she yelled, “THERE’S A BOY ON THE PHONE WHO WANTS TO GO BOWLING WITH YOU.” A pause. “HE WANTS TO GO NEXT TUESDAY. AT THREE”

Saffy didn’t like to do predictable things like wince at high pitched screaming from right next to her ear, but it was a struggle. “You have to tell him who it is before he can make up his mind whether to go or not,” she said.

Rose made a face like she couldn’t think why that would be, “IT’S NOT TOM.” There was a pause as she listened to the caller for another moment. “ALTHOUGH HE SAYS HE’S VERY NICE DESPITE IT.”

Indigo found a smile spreading across his face, somewhat helplessly. “TELL HIM I’LL GO,” he shouted from upstairs, on top of his bed, under his guitar.

“HE SAY’S HE’LL SEE YOU THERE,” said Rose, and Indigo decided to feel better.

\--

David _was_ nice, and it was nice to have a friend.

\--

Indigo bumped into Tom’s grandmother later in the summer, the week before school started. Indigo’s world, which had been spinning nearly normally for most of the summer, careened to a sharp stop. They were in the supermarket. Her trolley was almost entirely filled with cat food (with one small roast chicken balanced on top of the pile). Indigo’s was almost entirely filled with soup cans (with a carton of grapes in a similar position).

“Oh,” said Indigo, and pulled himself together. “How is Frances?” he asked, brightly.

“Oh, she’s back to rights! A pudgy little thing, walking and talking now! Didn’t Tom tell you?” The easy way she asked the question made him feel guilty, at fault somehow.

“We haven’t been speaking much. Well, we haven’t spoken since he left, actually,” said Indigo.

Tom’s grandmother sighed noisily. “I despair of that boy, I really do. For all he’s gotten better recently.” She gently squeaked her cart back and forth. “... It comes of being an only child - although he has slipped that yoke recently - and raised in America. No boundaries. No manners. Not like you,” she said warmly, “doing the family shop? Catch Tom doing that. No. That boy …”

Indigo smiled politely. A lifetime of being the quietest Casson had trained him to recognise when someone needed to rant at a person with a pleasant, bland expression.

“You were a great influence on him, you know. The best friend the boy’s ever had, to my knowledge.”

“Ah,” – Indigo was surprised to find his throat tightening – “thank you.”

He was worried that he would have to wipe tears away right there in front of her, but luckily, Sarah and Saffron, through clever application of wheelchair to bakery counter, created enough of a diversion that he could get away unscathed.

\--

Months passed. There were exams (Saffy’s) and tantrums (Rose’s) and paintings (Eve’s) and boyfriends (Caddy’s).

Indigo never quite achieved his sisters’ effortless popularity, but he was surprised one day to realise that he and David were pretty much best friends. They talked about starting a band. With fresh motivation and Indigo-ish focus, Indigo started learning drums _and_ guitar. Even Bill remarked on it, proud to have remembered a detail about his son’s life. As a final flourish, he even asked if Indigo’s “little American friend” was still giving him lessons, oblivious to the icy silence these remarks caused.

In February, a postcard came. It was saved from the eternal purgatory behind the toaster, which faced most Casson post, by its cryptic message.

It said, “Boy Blue - I still think of you when I do good things.”

“Do you think it’s from one of Caddy’s boyfriends?” asked Indigo, faintly.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Sarah, “it’s clearly for you, Indie. It must be from...him.” No one had said Tom’s name since Bill put his foot in it at Christmas.

“There isn’t a return address,” said Rose, furiously.

“You can’t have a return address on a postcard, Rose. They’re too small,” said Saffy. “We can find out where he is from the postmark.”

“We know where he is! He’s in America!”

“But there are lots of places in America.”

“It’s all _America_ , though.”

Indigo dodged his sisters and plucked the postcard from the table in front of them. He brought it up to his room, against the backdrop of their raising voices. Saffron barged in 10 minutes later to get the big atlas, but she stormed right out again and otherwise he was left in peace.

The back of the card had the Cassons’ address written in cramped, careful writing. The message was in marker, and took up the whole rest of the card. _I still think of you when I do good things_.

The front of the card read “Greetings from AMERICA,” and every letter of America was filled in with a landmark from a different place. Indigo recognised the San Francisco bridge, the Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon. He could feel the brag in it - could almost hear Tom’s voice as he explained that it would be weird for him to pick one part of America to send a postcard of, when he’d seen all of it by now, climbed most of it too.

What couldn’t be denied was that the postcard did not have a return address. It wasn’t an invitation to talk, it was a dramatic flourish. There was no way to respond. Indigo put the postcard in the bottom of his guitar case. A week later he put it in an old encyclopaedia, under 'T’. A week after that he decided to stop thinking about it.

\--

Rose was not afraid of Tom’s grandmother, because Rose was never afraid of grown-ups and was not going to start just because this one happened to be a witch. Still, it was a week after the postcard before she decided to visit the house at the top of the town.

“I need to talk to Tom,” said Rose, without preamble.

Tom's grandmother was standing at the base of a gnarled old apple tree. There was a broom leaning against the tree trunk, and she was squinting up into the leafless branches. She didn't respond to what Rose said, which was not how adults usually reacted to Rose's 'urgent’ voice.

“Excuse me? I said I need to speak to Tom.” This did not get a response either. “It's rude to ignore guests.”

“I was waiting on a hello,” Tom's grandmother said absently, unfolding her arms. “You’re not my guest. You’re a young hellion who has come onto my property without invitation, only to begin making demands.” She looked at Rose at last. “One of Indigo’s sisters, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Rose, who had gone slightly (but only slightly) red. “Hello. I didn’t mean to be rude, I’d like to talk to Tom. I need to. It’s very important.” There was a long moment of hesitation. “Please.”

Tom’s grandmother stared. “And what is it you _need_ to discuss with my grandson?”

Rose could not answer right away. A million things! Rose had a million things to discuss with Tom. At least once a week something happened that made her want to talk to Tom. When Daddy went away to London, at least she could send him letters to make him come home. Tom never called and he didn’t send letters and no one knew if he was _okay_.

“Tom has been very!” ‑she paused‑ “rude! To Indigo! And to me and Saffy and Sarah and Eve as well,” she added, “but Indigo mostly! I know he had to go to America because of his sister, but it’s not fair to stop talking to us! It’s especially not fair to stop talking to us and then send poor Indie a postcard with no return address! I think it’s very rude to break someone’s heart! I think it’s extra rude to do it twice!” Rose’s feelings, like so much over-churned cream, had resolved themselves into a hot, waxen rage, with some useless dribbly bits in there too.

Tom’s grandmother continued to look at her, for what Rose considered to be a rather rude amount of time. “I would say some of that goes beyond rudeness,” she said finally.

“Well,” said Rose hotly, “it’s rudeness that you seem to care most about!”

“Hmmm.” Tom’s grandmother didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore. “You know it’s about 4am in America.”

“I don’t see what difference that should make.”

“Phone calls to America are expensive.” she sighed, “Your heart’s in the right place -” she paused, looking blank.

“Rose,” said Rose.

“- Rose, of course, yes, Rose. Tom is thirteen. Thirteen year old boys aren’t very good at considering others’ emotions,” she shrugged, “or their own.”

Nine year old Rose, sister to thirteen year old Indigo, did not see why this would be the case, and said so.

“Well, how about we do an exchange, then?” said Tom’s grandmother. “I’ll let you ring Tom if  you get that old foolish cat out of this tree for me.” She looked wistful for a moment. “I just can’t fly up and down things the way I could when I was your age.”

 --

Rose skipped home three hours later, her jumper full of twigs, and her heart full of the joy of a job well done. She had shouted at Tom for ten minutes, and then, rather embarrassingly, cried down the phone for another ten. Then Tom had promised to write Indigo a proper letter. After that, Rose got to say hi to baby Francis before Tom had to get ready for school. Indigo and Saffy once explained to Rose how the world was a big ball and that was why it was night time in Singapore when it was daytime really.

Tom getting ready for school when Rose had just missed lunch reminded her of that. Rose was thinking of how big she could make a ball earth sculpture, and how can you make papier-mache waterproof.

**Author's Note:**

> while time creeps along  
> as though it’s got all day.  
> This is what I have.  
> The dull hangover of waiting,  
> the blush of my heart on the damp grass,  
> the flower-faced moon.  
> A gull broods on the shore  
> where a moment ago there were two.  
> Softly my right hand fondles my left hand  
> as though it were you.
> 
> From "Little Crazy Love Song" by Mary Oliver. 
> 
>  
> 
> Catch me on tumblr @spindletrees


End file.
